


The Grand Santa Barbara-ish Hotel

by Anonymous



Category: Psych
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Hostage Situations, Hotels, M/M, Mutual Pining, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, takes place after s3ep16: An Evening With Mr. Yang
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-04-24
Packaged: 2018-05-28 02:46:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6312325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Chief Vick hires Shawn to work a case, Gus refuses to partake. With most of the department wrapped up in another major case and the FBI vying to step in, Shawn and Lassiter have to solve the case as fast as possible, recover millions in stolen jewels, and struggle through their feelings for each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Great Strike of Gus (2009)

"Gus! Get in the Blueberry, we have a case!"

Shawn came bursting into Gus's office at Central Coast Pharmaceuticals, holding a tart with a piece of tape hanging off the tin, labelled "Jeff".

"No, no, no, Shawn!" Gus protested. "Whatever it is, we aren't taking it. You may not sympathize, but I have a lot of work to catch up from when you dragged me away for our last case!"

"Gus! Don't be a cold, wet, sandy bathing suit," Shawn complained. "We haven't had a case in weeks!" He took a bite of Jeff's tart.

Gus shot him a withering glare. "We finished a case yesterday."

"Okay, alright, fine. We haven't had a case in fourteen hours!" Shawn corrected with his mouth full, somehow making it sound like an even worse fate. He grabbed Gus by the arm and yanked him right out of his chair, knocking over a mug on his desk. The element of surprise carried him out of the office and into the hallway before Gus pulled away.

"Look," Shawn said, panting. "Lassie says he wants us on this. It's probably serious. I firmly believe it is our moral responsibility to help him out."

"Lassiter wants us on a case?" Gus asked incredulously, rubbing his forearm.

"Well, actually, he said that the Chief said that she wants us on a case," Shawn admitted.

"We have been doing back-to-back cases for weeks," Gus said, staring pointedly at Shawn. "This isn't about the cases. This is about your obsession with Lassiter."

Gus' declaration caused a few heads to turn in their direction.

"Not so loud!" Shawn hissed, glancing around to make sure no one was too interested. He seized his wrist again and led him out of the cubicles, not speaking again until they had reached an isolated hallway on the way to the exit.

"I am _not_ obsessed with Lassiter!" Shawn huffed.

"Sure," Gus allowed, following his friend against his better judgement. "I'm sure you only throw yourself at him all the time because he's just a friend. I wouldn't be surprised if the Chief started putting you two on all your cases together, just to see what happens."

"I do not throw myself at him," he insisted, choosing to ignore the latter statement.

Gus sighed. "I could prove to you a million times over why that is categorically untrue."

"You could not!" Shawn scoffed, immediately wishing he hadn't.

"You show up at every single one of his crime scenes," Gus began, counting on his fingers. "You took on a cold case that we didn't get paid for and gave up all the credit, so he would stop thinking he was a bad cop. For four years you have tried to impress him every single chance you got. I could go on, you know."

"I think I get the point," Shawn muttered. "It doesn't matter either way. Lassie has made his position very clear."

Gus sighed; a little out of pity, but mostly because his best friend was an idiot.

The two reached the reception desk, where Gus insisted on signing out even though he had no decent reason to leave. "I'm in enough trouble already for your last stunt, Shawn," he grumbled.

Tapping his foot impatiently as he waited, Shawn did a scan of the receptionist. _Loose shoes, large dress,_ he noticed. He spotted a Starbucks cup next to her mouse ( _right handed_ , he noted absently). _Drinking decaf. Pregnant. Boring._

Gus finally finished his lengthy signature and handed her back her pen. "Thank you," he over-enunciated, seemingly ignoring the gilded ring prominently posted on her finger.

Shawn snorted in disgust. "Stop flirting, hurry up."

"Let a player do his thing, Shawn."

He rolled his eyes and followed Gus to the car, where he sat silently. He could feel his friend's occasional sideways glance, but he was too busy being moody at him to talk. _I am not obsessed with Lassiter!_ he insisted to himself _. Gus is crazy. What does he know?_

When Gus pulled into an empty spot at the station, he allowed Shawn to lead him out of his car and inside with minimal resistance. He stopped in his tracks when he spotted the familiar cluster of detectives and cops around the monitor, listening to Lassiter giving a briefing.

"Oh no Shawn," he protested. "I am not getting involved in some high-profile case, where I'll probably be shot and buried in a shallow grave! I am going back to work, and I am going to go to the meeting that I have rescheduled four times because of you, and I am going to leave you to deal with your middle-school crush, and you can't stop me!"

He turned around and marched out of the station.

"Gus!" Shawn called after him, sighing when he didn't stop. "Come on, man!" Gus had been going through a sort of "rebellious" stage, ever since the incident with Camp Tikihama and Clive. He kept trying to prove he was all independent or something, that he didn't need Shawn to protect him – Shawn guessed that was what this whole thing stemmed from.

No matter the reason, he knew that he was now on his own for the weekend. What better way to spend it than solving another case?

Shawn made his way delicately through the crowd of officers so he could see the slideshow. The faces of five prisoners in their orange uniforms were displayed on the screen. He tuned into what Lassie was saying.

"...considered armed and highly dangerous. So far, it looks like they had the warden on their payroll. He disarmed the alarm system long enough for them to break out. We already have him in custody, and are questioning him about the possible whereabouts of the five prisoners."

"Well then what did the Chief want me for?" Shawn asked loudly.

Lassiter stopped talking and gave him a hostile glare. "Why do you feel the need to constantly interrupt my briefings?"

"C'mon Lassieface, don't be a sourpuss. Chief Vick just didn't think you were cut out to catch these guys. No biggie. I would be happy to assist of course."

The sarcasm on Lassiter's face reached lethal levels. "Spencer, I wouldn't accept your help on this case if Sweet Lady Justice herself came and handcuffed us together."

"Kinky," Shawn muttered under his breath.

"Besides, this isn't my case anymore." He looked rather virulent about this fact.

"Huh," Shawn mused, spinning around and heading to Chief Vick's office, Lassiter on his heels. Before he could burst in, the Chief opened the door herself, meeting him in the doorway.

"Mr. Spencer, Detective, into my office."

She turned and walked around her desk to sit down; she opened her mouth to speak, but stopped to frown when she saw Shawn standing there alone.

"Where is Mr. Guster?"

Shawn sighed. "He took a vacation from detective work, as of eight minutes ago."

Lassiter snorted. "Like you two clowns could be considered detectives."

Chief Vick shot him a warning glance. "Anyway, I want you on a case, with or without Gus."

"Really?" As pleased as he was to have a case, Shawn was surprised. He would have thought the Chief would be happy with just Lassie on the case, at least until he completely screwed it up.

"I have an assignment for the two of you," she said.

_Oh God, Gus was right,_ Shawn thought, silently beseeching the Chief not to do it.

Lassiter and Shawn looked at each other suspiciously. Surely the Chief knew by now just how poorly they worked together without a mitigator?

"I'm short on officers, so I need you on a case," she elaborated.

Lassiter raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure this is the best idea, Chief? I mean-"

"For God's sake, Detective, you don't even know what you're doing yet." Chief Vick handed them a case file. Lassiter frowned.

_Smugglers?_ Shawn read. "Um, excuse me, Chief? But why do you need me on this case?"

"Usually, I wouldn't," she admitted. "But I don't have anyone else to do it. The Feds are itching to take this case away from us. These guys are international smugglers and they are extremely dangerous." She looked at Shawn as if this were an enticement. Shawn couldn't say it wasn't.

"You won't be able to get any other officers on this case either," she added, still looking at Shawn. He couldn't say this wasn't enticement either.

"And you want us to wrap it up fast," he concluded. She nodded. Lassiter still looked less than pleased.

"I don't see why Spencer has to be on this case," Lassiter scoffed.

"Come on, Lassie! I'm delightful," Shawn argued.

"Enough!" Chief Vick ordered. "Go! Solve your case! And," she added as they were leaving, "work together."

Lassiter grumbled something along the lines of "mucking fell", but Shawn decided it was safe to assume he had misheard. _Clucking shell? Taco Bell!_ he speculated. He was still thinking when Lassiter grabbed his arm and dragged him to his desk.

"Ok," he grumbled. "If I have to work with you, then there are going to be rules. Rule number one-"

"Lassie, where's Jules?" Shawn interrupted.

He sighed. "Working what was going to be my case."

Lassiter continued to list his rules, so Shawn tuned out and flipped through the case file. _Smugglers. Trafficking stolen diamonds worldwide. Selling them to whoever they could. Large, recent shipment distributed around Santa Barbara. Worth tens of millions. Previously apprehended, but let go on a formality._

He flipped further, to the mugshots. _Tattoos. Wolves. All of them have one on their left shoulder. One woman with a scar on her cheek, one guy with horrible hair and one with a big bushy beard. Leaders of a small network._

He tuned back in. Lassiter was still talking.

"...and lastly, absolutely NO animals in my car. Got it, Spencer?"

"Mm-hm. Yup. Capiche. En comprende," he answered, doing the last one in a horrible Spanish accent and not completely sure he was using it right. Although he did wonder, under what circumstances would Lassie expect him to take an animal in the car?

"So what do we do now?"

"We go look around. See if anyone knows anything," Lassiter said, pulling out a list of known associates from the file. "Oh, and no feet on my dash."


	2. In Which Many People Are Not Straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who commented, bookmarked, left kudos, whatever. It was really awesome to see that, and sorry I took so long to update! Honestly I probably will take a while to do the next chapter too thanks to the amount of homework I consistently get, but rest assured, I will update it

Lassiter pulled up in front of a plain little condo with bluish-grey siding and a small, infirm flower garden out front. A lawn chair had been blown off the porch and now lay upside down on the yellow-tinged grass. At some point in the house’s history, the edges of two of the concrete steps had been chipped off, part of the gutter had detached and now swung slightly in the breeze, and the railings and window sills had become covered with cobwebs. It all looked rather depressing, especially as the sky began to darken with storm clouds. The house belonged to the mother of one of the smugglers, Tyler Matthews. The one with the horrible hair, as Shawn had dubbed him. Lassiter thought that this looked exactly like the kind of place a criminal could have grown up in.

"All right!" Shawn exclaimed. "Let's do this!"

Lassiter braced himself for the ridiculous antics that were sure to begin any minute now.

"It's almost like I'm a real detective, doing actual detective work," he continued, "instead of just being a psychic."

"You're not psychic." 

"So I guess I must be a real detective!" he gasped. 

Lassiter sighed. He just couldn't win with Shawn.

Shawn beat him to the door and knocked several more times than socially acceptable. A middle-aged woman answered the door. She was dressed in shabby pyjama pants and a faded, oversized t-shirt. Her hair was tied back in an unkempt ponytail that looked like it hadn’t been washed recently and she wore no makeup to hide the dark circles under her eyes. Lassiter was put on edge by the vague feeling that she didn't appreciate their presence at all.

"Hi, Mrs. Matthews. Carlton Lassiter, SPBD," he introduced himself, flashing his badge. "We'd like to ask you a few questions about your son."

She nodded. “Yeah, ok.” And she led them inside. 

"Here," she said, gesturing to an old couch. "Feel free to sit down. Would you like some water, or lemonade?"

Shawn opened his mouth to accept, but Lassiter glared at him.

"No thanks," he answered. Mrs. Matthews nodded and continued through to the kitchen. He and Shawn sat down, and suddenly he became acutely aware of how close he was to the psychic. He inched away, coughing uncomfortably. 

The inside of the residence was just as drab as the outside; perhaps more, without any natural light getting in through the tightly shut blinds. There was hardly any furniture, but it felt stuffy nonetheless thanks to the beige painted walls that served only to press the walls inward. Lassiter didn't get claustrophobic, but he found the house rather claustrophobic. From what he’d seen there were no decorations of any kind, except for a single painting of a snow-covered birch forest above the old fireplace, whose elegance gave an odd contrast to the bedraggled vibe of the rest of the house.

Heavy footsteps sounded from the stairwell. Lassiter snapped to attention, already apprehensive, and found his hand drifting to his gun. Shawn noticed and grabbed his hand to stop him with an admonishing glare.

Lassiter froze, taken aback, and Shawn let go quickly. He cleared his throat. A man – Mrs. Matthews' husband, he figured – arrived at the bottom of the stairs and stood there, staring at the detective and his compatriot. Lassiter set his jaw. This felt wrong. 

Mr. Matthews stormed into the kitchen and started shouting. 

"...called the cops on our son?!" Lassiter heard him say, followed by his wife's inaudible response.

"Lassie! We have to get in there!" Shawn exclaimed, standing up. 

"Stay put," he ordered tersely, unbuckling his holster and heading into the kitchen.

"Is there a problem here?" he asked loud enough to be heard over the husband's heated words.

"She didn't call us, Mr. Matthews," Shawn added from right behind Lassiter, almost making him jump. He felt a flash of anger.

"Spencer, I told you to stay back," he whispered firmly.

"I'll be fine," Shawn responded. 

_ Why do I even try? _

"No, not at all," Mr. Matthews answered smoothly.

"We came to ask you and your wife some questions," Lassiter told them. When the husband didn't respond, he felt his hand drifting toward his gun again.

"No problem," he said finally. Lassiter felt Shawn's soft sigh of relief against his neck and shivered just a bit.

"I'll get us some drinks," he offered, even though his wife had already asked and been answered.

Once they were seated back on the couch, Lassiter got to work.

"As you may know, your son and his partners are believed to be in or near Santa Barbara now," he said. "Do you know anything at all related to his whereabouts or his plans here?"

"Well, Detective," Mrs. Matthews started quietly, an unconscious attempt to keep her husband from hearing their conversation from the kitchen, "we hadn't had any contact with our son in years. But about a month ago he called and asked if he could see us."

"And you didn't report this?" Lassiter asked. She glanced nervously at the kitchen. Lassiter got the point immediately. "Never mind," he said. As much as it irked him, he wasn't going to do anything that might put this lady in danger. Her husband obviously cared more about his family image than for his actual family.

"What did you say?" Shawn inquired.

"Dave, my husband, told him of course we'd see him." She dropped her voice to a whisper. "But I didn't think it was a good idea."

"Did you end up seeing him? Did he say anything that might help us locate him?" Lassiter asked.

"He came over, just for dinner," she said. "He said he had wanted to say goodbye."

Mr. Matthews set a tray of drinks down on the coffee table. Shawn took one, but Lassiter didn't want to risk being drugged or poisoned or the like. He wouldn't put it past this guy.

"Goodbye?" Shawn mused, mostly to himself.

"He wouldn't say where he was going or what he was doing," she told them. "He only said he wouldn't be able to see us again, and that he had found a way to "get out"."

"Well, we should really be going," Lassiter said, standing up. He didn't feel like staying in this place any longer and he knew he wouldn’t get much more out of the smuggler’s parents. Shawn stood too, blocking his path. His eyes bore the unmistakable message:  _ We have to help this woman. _ Lassiter looked him in the eyes and shook his head infinitesimally, and Shawn clenched his jaw. He got out of the way and followed Lassiter out the door with a muttered "thank you" to their hosts. As soon as the door was shut behind them, he rounded on Lassiter.

"Why didn't we do anything?" he demanded.

"There was nothing we could do," Lassiter replied. "Any move we made would have just put her in more danger." He got into his car and slammed the door.

"Oh, well, how about  _ arresting  _ the son of a bitch?" Shawn shouted, yanking his door shut after him. It gave a deafening bang and he winced.

"We didn't have grounds for an arrest. Believe me, I would if I could," Lassiter growled. "I've seen this a million times. She'll have to get help on her own when she's ready, and that was certainly not today."

Shawn fell silent. Lassiter started the car and pulled out of the driveway, letting his words hang in the air between them. He turned into the street and stepped on the gas, making his passenger’s head smack against the seat and the tires squeal as they left dark lines in the asphalt.  _ Idiot psychic, trying to be some sort of...vigilante advocate for every useless rescue case he can find.  _ In his rear view mirror, he saw Mr. Matthews’ head poke out of his window before he drew the blinds and retreated into the house. Thinking of Mrs. Matthews, he grimaced.

They’d made it back to the main road before Shawn decided to pipe up again. "Like with your mother?" he asked. 

“What?”

"You haven't just 'seen it a million times', you've seen it first hand."

"What's that, another psychic revelation?" Lassiter muttered, ignoring the question.

"No. Just an educated guess."

"Whatever. Either way, it's none of your business," he snapped. He was borderline furious now. The feeling of Shawn’s gaze on him was palpable as he carefully thought out his next prying question. He tried his best to ignore it, staring ahead at the road and stubbornly avoiding the passenger side mirror, even though traffic was starting to get thick.

"What happened?" Shawn asked eventually.

Lassiter snorted. "Like I'm going to give you even more ammo to use against me. Besides, if you’re so psychic then can't you just figure it out?"

“Yeah, well…”

When Shawn drifted off and remained mute for several moments, he risked a glance to his right. Shawn was staring out the window. Lassiter furrowed his brow. The other man didn't look angry or disappointed that he couldn't get any information, or even contemplative of their conversation. He looked genuinely… Hurt? Like he had, in truth, been curious, not just looking for new ways to humiliate him.  _ No. Impossible. _ Still, though, he found his anger dissipating.

They were both silent the rest of the way back to the police station, and getting out of the car, and walking through the station. Juliet met them in the hall, holding a case file and looking too avid for Lassiter’s dampened mood. Shawn gave her a quick greeting and left in a hurry to claim something from the snack table.

"Hey! How's the case going?" Jules asked.

"Nothing substantial yet," he answered. She must have noticed his lack of enthusiasm.

"Everything alright?" she asked, sounding concerned.

"Fine," Lassiter answered. "Are we talking about the case or not?"

Juliet crossed her arms over her chest. Lassiter sighed, knowing he was defeated.

"Spencer was all in a twist over this guy's mother we interviewed," he said. "It looked like she was in...a bad place with her husband."

Her eyes flooded with sympathy, like they did too often in his opinion. "You can't blame him. It’s a bit of a sensitive subject."

Lassiter blinked in surprise. "What? You mean he wasn't just asking to mess with me?"

"Asking what?" 

Now Juliet looked confused too.

"He figured out I'd had a similar experience and he wanted to know about it," he explained quickly, preoccupied by his new revelation, before realizing what he had just confessed to. "Wait. I mean..."

His heart sank when he saw pity in her expression.  _ Ugh, not this. Please not this.  _

But then confusion again.

"Why do you even care if Shawn sees you differently?" she asked with a tilt of her head. Lassiter looked at the floor and shuffled his feet, fabricating a response.  _ Shit shit shit, why can't I think of anything?  _

Jules watched him for a moment, trying to figure out what was happening to her partner. He could practically see her thinking it over – and then she realized. Her mouth dropped open.

"Oh... OH!" she exclaimed. "Carlton! How could you not tell me about this?"

"No... It's not..." he protested. She let out a tiny squeal of excitement.

"Have you told him?" she demanded. "What did he say?"

"No, I haven't... I mean, I haven't told him," Lassiter stuttered. "I have to go." He hurried away from Juliet, cringing furiously at himself, and sat at his desk. Snatching up his case file, he swiftly read through for new leads. 

Shawn wandered over to his desk, eating a doughnut. Lassiter buried his head deeper in the case file ‒ partly because he’d spotted a name, partly to hide his blush.

"So," said the psychic, mouth full, "anyone else on the list of acquaintances?" 

"Yes," Lassiter replied. "One Mrs. Wilson. Lives right nearby."

"What, Beard Guy's wife?" Shawn asked.

"No. Scar Woman's." He grabbed the file and left his desk without looking at Shawn, but he caught Juliet staring gleefully in his direction. He resisted the urge to glare back.

Shawn broke into a trot to keep up with Lassiter's hurried strides.

"What's up with Jules?" he asked. "She seemed unusually exuberant."

_ Crap _ . "Why should I know?" Lassiter retorted. Shawn raised his eyebrows.

Lassiter continued out of the station and back to his car. Although he wasn’t one for sitting so long, he was eager for a distraction and to solve this case fast.

"Where to?" Shawn asked, climbing into the passenger seat.

"91 Emery Crescent," he answered. 

“Cool.”

The drive to Emery was a short one, and, much to Lassiter’s pleasure, Shawn didn't find cause to talk. Which, he realized, was quite unusual for the unruly consultant. It made him suspicious. 

After ten minutes or so, they parked in front of a gray townhouse with a small rose garden along the front, and a young birch tree in the middle of the yard. The grass was lush and healthy, trimmed impeccably, and looked very green against the dull, stormy sky. The plants contrasted nicely with the tones of the house.  _ I can respect that,  _ Lassiter thought as he climbed out of his car.

Shawn went prancing up the stone path and made it to the door first. He raised a fist to knock, but hesitated; instead, he jabbed at the door bell three times. Lassiter smacked his shoulder and shot him an exasperated glare. 

The lock clicked open and a young lady with long, curly blonde hair opened the door. She smiled at them.

“Hi, how can I help you?”

“Are you Mrs. Wilson?” Lassiter asked, reaching for his badge. “Detective Lassiter, SBPD.”

“Please, it’s just Ashton,” she corrected. “Here, come in, it’s getting quite cold.”

She opened the door wider and ushered them inside with a little shiver. Shawn tried to follow her into the house but Lassiter, noticing her socked feet and clean floors, stopped him in his tracks and gestured annoyedly for him to take off his boots. He gave a silent groan, yet folded.

"Is there anyone else in the house?" Shawn thought to ask as he stumbled into an upright position.

"Nope, I live alone."

Ashton led her guests into the living room and sat them down with an offer of drinks or snacks.  _ Well, Shawn didn't die from the last time, and this lady seems even  _ less _ likely to poison anyone…  _ Lassiter asked for a glass of water, and made sure to distance himself from Shawn this time. Shawn, of course, was unable to resist asking for cookies and milk, not to mention doing so in an all-too-childish manner. Luckily, their host took it in good spirits.

“Nice house,” Lassiter remarked, admiring the modern, clean lines and the earthy tones. It reminded him of his own place.

Shawn gave a hum of agreement.

Caught up in admiring the couch, he didn't notice Ashton walk back in until she placed a tray of drinks and cookies on the coffee table and sat down in an armchair across from them. 

“Thank you.”

“Thanks.”

"What can I do for you, Detective, and..." she trailed off, unsure what to call Shawn.

"Shawn Spencer, Head Psychic for the SBPD." He gave her a lopsided grin and shook her hand in a pompous fashion. Lassiter gave him a look, baffled that he would even try flirting with her.

He cleared his throat. "Anyway, Ashton, we're here to ask you some questions about your wife, Holly."

"I had guessed. Although technically, we're separated," she informed them. Shawn cast Lassiter a sidelong glance.

"We need to know if you have any information regarding the whereabouts of her or her partners," he said, ignoring Shawn.

Ashton shook her head apologetically. "The last time I saw her was two years ago," she replied. "We only spoke on the phone after that."

"Why didn't you see her?" Shawn questioned.

"Well, after we moved in together we fell on some hard times," she admitted. "We couldn't pay the bills, we couldn't ask for financial help from family, for varying reasons."

Lassiter knew what that meant.

"Holly got mixed up in some shady stuff, she was trying to make ends meet," she continued. “She was always just...too stubborn for her own good. She refused to sell the house and downsize because she knew I loved it. I think, maybe, she couldn't handle feeling like she had failed, even though I told her that’s not how it was.”

Shawn nodded empathetically. “What kind of “shady stuff”? How did she end up as a high-ranking member of a major smuggling ring?”

"First it was just minor stuff like gambling and betting, but then there was the petty theft, and it all just spiralled out of control,” Ashton said. “She was very good at it, to be honest. She knew exactly how to make people do what she wanted. That smuggling ring was glad to have her. After a while, I just couldn't put up with it anymore, so I broke it off. I wanted a divorce, but she wouldn't have it. She wanted it to stay official so she could, y'know, claim me on her taxes and the like."

Lassiter jotted down the important stuff in his notebook. "Are you saying she pays your bills?”

“Oh, no. I know she gets her income illegally.”

_ At least there’s nothing to prosecute her for. _ “And has she contacted you since she left?”

"She’s called quite a few times since then, but they've just been small talk," she said. "Nothing important."

From the look on her face, they were indeed very important. Just not to the case.

"Well, I think we have all we need, we should be going-"

"I'm sorry, about all that stuff," Shawn said suddenly, interrupting Lassiter. "I mean, it must be hard...being in a lesbian relationship...'n stuff..." he trailed off awkwardly, but she was smiling.

"Neither of us are lesbians," she said with a faint laugh. "I'm bisexual, she's asexual."

“Ah. My bad.”

Lassiter couldn't say he was surprised at that, but he was surprised that Shawn didn't look surprised. He could count the number of straight people he knew, who knew those terms without asking, on one hand. He stood up.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Wilson. We should be heading back to the station now," he said. She walked them to the door and exchanged a quick farewell.

It took Lassiter until he was sitting in his car to realize that Shawn hadn't followed him. He'd stayed at the door, talking to Ashton. He strained to hear what they were saying, unsuccessfully, but he could see Shawn glancing at his feet and blushing.  _ Humility looks good on him. _ He blinked.  _ Did I really just think that?  _

He gave a final nod and waved goodbye to her, hopping into the car.

"What was that about?" Lassiter asked, trying to sound casual despite being curious in the extreme.

"Oatmeal raisin cookies," he answered, nodding sincerely. "Yeah, I sensed she had a great recipe but then I remembered that I hate raisins!"

Even though it was the worst lie he had ever heard, Lassiter didn't pry. Not because he was respecting Shawn's privacy or anything, definitely not, but because he knew he wouldn't get anything but snark for his efforts.

He started the car. “Well, that didn't help much.”

“No, not really. I didn't sense anything odd about her, except that she's clearly doing better for herself since Holly ran off.” 

“You don't need to be psychic to see that.”

“No,” Shawn continued smugly, “but you do need to be psychic to know that Holly had a drug problem. Does she still? I don't know. But that’s why they were having money troubles.”

Lassiter narrowed his eyes.  _ How did he know that? _ “Say you’re right. How does that help this case?”

“I have no clue.”

“Fantastic.”

Lassiter pulled out of the driveway and headed for the highway. The streetlights were just starting to turn on as the sun cast orange and pink light across the thick clouds; soon, he knew, the city core would be the primary source of light. He’d always liked the look of the skyscrapers at night, like the pinpoint stars that they drowned out. The case, the day’s events, Shawn, all played themselves over in his head, and none of it really made sense. He was glad that the roads were not busy, because he found himself unable to concentrate on driving. 

“Ooh, look at that dog,” Shawn pointed out. 

“I can't see it through your arm.”

Shawn’s interjection broke Lassiter out of his thought process. As he took the exit to the police station, a new idea occurred to him: Shawn didn't have a way to get home. The busses would have stopped running by then and he knew with relative certainty that he didn't have money for a cab.  _ I should offer to drive him home. _ He shook his head a bit.  _ What? No! Don't offer to do that _ ...  _ I should offer to do that. _ He cringed.  _ No, no, no, don't do that. _ He felt himself start to open his mouth.  _ Stop it, don't do it, don't do it- _

"So do you, uh, want me to drop you off at your house?" he asked.  _ Oh my God why.  _ "I mean, there's only paperwork left to do and it's getting kind of late..."

"Yeah, sure. Thanks," Shawn replied, a little shocked.

"Sure," Lassiter muttered.  _ I regret so much. _

He turned away from the station and headed for Shawn’s house, which he knew wasn’t really an actual house. The drive was short one, which was good because he was mentally hitting himself all the way for showing some semblance of sympathy to the arrogant psychic. It was one of the most relieving moments of his life when he finally pulled up to his destination, sending Shawn off with an awkward goodbye. And yet, he realized as he peeled away and made a beeline back to the station, although he was looking forward to a night of paperwork, he was going to miss Shawn’s company for the night. He groaned loudly.  _ What is wrong with me? _


End file.
